After Longfellow
The Modern Hiawatha
HE killed the noble Mudjokivis.
Of the skin he made him mittens,
Made them with the fur side inside,
Made them with the skin side outside.
He, to get the warm side inside,
Put the inside skin side outside;
He, to get the cold side outside,
Put the warm side fur side inside.
That’s why he put the fur side inside,
Why he put the skin side outside,
Why he turned them inside outside.
Anonymous.
Higher
THE shadows of night were a-comin’ down swift,
And the dazzlin’ snow lay drift on drift,
As thro’ a village a youth did go,
A-carryin’ a flag with this motto,—
Higher!
O’er a forehead high curled copious hair,
His nose a Roman, complexion fair,
O’er an eagle eye an auburn lash,
And he never stopped shoutin’ thro’ his moustache!
“Higher!”
He saw thro’ the windows as he kept gettin’ upper
A number of families sittin’ at supper,
But he eyes the slippery rocks very keen
And fled as he cried, and cried while a fleein’—
“Higher!”
“Take care you there!” said an old woman; “stop!
It’s blowing gales up there on top—
You’ll tumble off on t’other side!”
But the hurryin’ stranger loud replied,
“Higher!”
“Oh! don’t you go up such a shocking night,
Come sleep on my lap,” said a maiden bright.
On his Roman nose a tear-drop come,
But still he remarked, as he upward clomb,
“Higher!”
“Look out for the branch of that sycamore-tree!
Dodge rolling stones, if any you see!”
Sayin’ which the farmer went home to bed
And the singular voice replied overhead,
“Higher!”
About quarter past six the next afternoon,
A man accidentally goin’ up soon,
Heard spoken above him as often as twice
The very same word in a very weak voice,
“Higher!”
And not far, I believe, from quarter of seven—
He was slow gettin’ up, the road bein’ uneven—
Found the stranger dead in the drifted snow,
Still clutchin’ the flag with the motto—
Higher!
Yes! lifeless, defunct, without any doubt,
The lamp of life being decidedly out,
On the dreary hillside the youth was a layin’!
And there was no more use for him to be sayin’
“Higher!”
Anonymous.
Topside Galah!
THAT nightee teem he come chop, chop,
One young man walkee, no can stop,
Colo makee; icee makee;
He got flag; chop b’long welly culio, see—
Topside Galah!
He too muchee folly; one piecee eye
Lookee sharp—so fashion—alla same mi;
He talkee largee, talkee stlong,
To muchee culio; alla same gong—
Topside Galah!
Inside any house he can see light;
Any piecee loom got fire all light;
He lookee see plenty ice more high,
Inside he mouf he plenty cly—
Topside Galah!
“No can walkee!” olo man speakee he;
“Bimeby lain come, no can see;
Hab got water welly wide!”
Maskee, mi must go topside—
Topside Galah!
“Man-man,” one galo talkee he,
“What for you go topside look see?”
“Nother teem,” he makee plenty cly,
Maskee, alla teem walkee plenty high—
Topside Galah!
“Take care that spilum tlee, young man;
Take care that icee!” he no man-man
That coolie chin-chin he good-night;
He talkee “mi can go all light”—
Topside Galah!
Joss pidgin man chop-chop begin,
Morning teem that Joss chin-chin,
No see any man, he plenty fear,
Cause some man talkee, he can hear—
Topside Galah!
Young man makee die; one largee dog see
Too muchee bobbery, findee he.
Hand too muchee colo, inside can stop
Alla same piecee flag, got culio chop—
Topside Galah!
Anonymous.
Excelsior
THE swampy State of Illinois
Contained a greenish sort of boy,
Who read with idiotic joy—
“Excelsior!”
He tarried not to eat or drink,
But put a flag of lightish pink,
And traced on it in violet ink—
Excelsior!
Though what he meant by that absurd,
Uncouth, and stupid, senseless word,
Has not been placed upon record—
Excelsior!
The characters were very plain,
In German text, yet he was fain
With greater clearness to explain—
Excelsior!
And so he ran, this stupid wight,
And hollered out with all his might,
(As to a person out of sight)—
“Excelsior!”
And everybody thought the lad
Within an ace of being mad,
Who cried in accents stern and sad—
“Excelsior!”
“Come to my arms,” the maiden cried;
The youth grinned sheepishly, and sighed,
And then appropriately replied—
“Excelsior!”
The evening sun is in the sky,
But still the creature mounts on high
And shouts (nor gives a reason why)
“Excelsior!”
And ere he gains the topmost crag
His feeble legs begin to lag;
Unsteadily he holds the flag—
Excelsior!
Now P. C. Nab is on his track!
He puts him in an empty sack,
And brings him home upon his back—
Excelsior!
Nab takes him to a lumber store,
They toss him in and lock the door,
Which only makes him bawl the more—
“Excelsior!”
Anonymous.
“The Day Is Done”
THE day is done, and darkness
From the wing of night is loosed,
As a feather is wafted downward,
From a chicken going to roost.
I see the lights of the baker,
Gleam through the rain and mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,
That I cannot well resist.
A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not like being sick,
And resembles sorrow only
As a brickbat resembles a brick.
Come, get for me some supper,—
A good and regular meal—
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the pain I feel.
Not from the pastry bakers,
Not from the shops for cake;
I wouldn’t give a farthing
For all that they can make.
For, like the soup at dinner,
Such things would but suggest
Some dishes more substantial,
And to-night I want the best.
Go to some honest butcher,
Whose beef is fresh and nice,
As any they have in the city,
And get a liberal slice.
Such things through days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
For sad and desperate feelings,
Are wonderful remedies.
They have an astonishing power
To aid and reinforce,
And come like the “finally, brethren,”
That follows a long discourse.
Then get me a tender sirloin
From off the bench or hook.
And lend to its sterling goodness
The science of the cook.
And the night shall be filled with comfort,
And the cares with which it begun
Shall fold up their blankets like Indians,
And silently cut and run.
Phœbe Cary.
A Psalm of Life
TELL me not, in idle jingle,
Marriage is an empty dream,
For the girl is dead that’s single,
And things are not what they seem.
Married life is real, earnest,
Single blessedness a fib,
Taken from man, to man returnest,
Has been spoken of the rib.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Nearer brings the wedding-day.
Life is long, and youth is fleeting,
And our hearts, if there we search,
Still like steady drums are beating
Anxious marches to the Church.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle;
Be a woman, be a wife!
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act—act in the living Present.
Heart within, and Man ahead!
Lives of married folks remind us
We can live our lives as well,
And, departing, leave behind us;—
Such examples as will tell;—
Such examples, that another,
Sailing far from Hymen’s port,
A forlorn, unmarried brother,
Seeing, shall take heart, and court.
Let us then be up and doing,
With the heart and head begin;
Still achieving, still pursùing,
Learn to labor, and to win!
Phœbe Cary.
How Often
THEY stood on the bridge at midnight,
In a park not far from the town;
They stood on the bridge at midnight,
Because they didn’t sit down.
The moon rose o’er the city,
Behind the dark church spire;
The moon rose o’er the city
And kept on rising higher.
How often, oh, how often!
They whispered words so soft;
How often, oh, how often;
How often, oh, how oft!
Ben King.
Desolation
SOMEWHAT back from the village street
Stands the old fashioned country seat.
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw.
And there throughout the livelong day,
Jemima plays the pi-a-na.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.
In the front parlor there it stands,
And there Jemima plies her hands,
While her papa, beneath his cloak,
Mutters and groans: “This is no joke!”
And swears to himself and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.
Through days of death and days of birth
She plays as if she owned the earth.
Through every swift vicissitude
She drums as if it did her good,
And still she sits from morn till night
And plunks away with main and might
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.
In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted hospitality;
But that was many years before
Jemima dallied with the score.
When she began her daily plunk,
Into their graves the neighbors sunk.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.
To other worlds they’ve long since fled,
All thankful that they’re safely dead.
They stood the racket while alive
Until Jemima rose at five.
And then they laid their burdens down,
And one and all they skipped the town.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.
Tom Masson.
The Birds and the Pheasant
I SHOT a partridge in the air,
It fell in turnips, “Don” knew where;
For just as it dropped, with my right
I stopped another in its flight.
I killed a pheasant in the copse,
It fell amongst the fir-tree tops;
For though a pheasant’s flight is strong,
A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long.
Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie,
I found the birds in jelly lie;
And the pheasant at a fortnight’s end,
I found again in the carte of a friend.
Punch.